


The Last Train to Glory (#NotMyPresident)

by ObsessedtwibrarianOTB



Category: Original Work
Genre: #NotMyPresident, F/M, Flash Fic, Horror, Paranormal, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, donald trump - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 19:06:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7904170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsessedtwibrarianOTB/pseuds/ObsessedtwibrarianOTB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you're dead, you're dead. That's it.  Or is it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Train to Glory (#NotMyPresident)

**Author's Note:**

> This flash was written using a prompt set of three words (genre, location, object): Horror/Garbage Dump/Neon Sign. The story had to be exactly 1,000 words in length. Also, any similarities of my main character to Donald Trump is absolutely intentional. Keep in mind that this story is a creative work of FICTION.

 

Donald was dead. Dead as a doornail. Deader than four o’clock. He’d kicked the bucket. _Finally._

 _Thank you, God, (and Cancer) for answering our prayers._ She smiled, her first real smile in 25 years. He’d hated her Southern sayings _and_ her God. ‘Satan is a tool,’ he’d say with a laugh. She felt sure he and Satan were currently picking out curtains together. 

She wandered through the rooms of her prison—rooms resembling a museum instead of a home. The lavishly expensive furnishings screamed his name. She was going to sell it all and give the money to charity, because Donald hated the poor more than he hated an inflated dollar. But the philanthropy could wait; she had a date with the garbage dump first. 

She entered their bedroom for the last time and stared at the massive closet, which held the costumes they’d worn to their masquerade ball of a life. Eventually it would all end up in the local thrift shop, but there were a few select things that deserved a special burial. 

The white sequined gown. Two sizes too tight, the zipper bit into her back and drew blood, but he forced her to wear it. ‘My wife will not look like a fat cow.’ _Trash._ Into the box it went. 

The red stiletto heels. They forced her ass to sway seductively, which supposedly made all the other men in the room wish they were Donald so they could fuck her. Cock-blocking his male associates using his wife had been one of his favorite pastimes. _Trash._

The gray designer suit. A poor family of four could eat for a year on the money it cost. He was wearing it—the pants down around his ankles—when she walked in on him banging the teenage daughter of her best friend. He wore it on their anniversary every year since, when he forced her to go out in public and pretend she loved him. _Trash._

The nightgown. She was wearing it the first time he dragged her up the stairs by the hair and raped her. He made her wear it to bed every year on their anniversary while he indulged himself in ‘a little rough sex.’ _Trash._

She slid open the drawer of the nightstand beside their bed. The gun. He held it to Donnie’s head when he was only two years old, threatening to blow his brains out if she even _thought_ about leaving him. He pointed it at _her_ head a few times, too. _Trash._

“Mom? I’ve got everything.”  
  
She smiled at the sound of Donnie’s voice, her only child. He was her salvation, a gift from God sent to help her focus on what was truly important during the years of abuse. He was the polar opposite of his father; there wasn’t a cruel bone in his body. Despite his horrendous childhood, he’d grown into a confident, kind, and hopeful young man who possessed a strong desire to help others. He was a beautiful soul, inside and out. Now that Donald was dead, his son was poised to step into his corporate shoes and begin to repair the damage of his father’s cruel legacy. 

“I think this is a good first step toward healing,” he said softly, holding his own large box of Donald’s weapons in his arms. 

“I think so too, honey.” 

 _‘Vaginas are for fucking, not for thinking, you stupid cunt.’_  Donald’s words. They were one of his favorite needles and he stabbed her in the brain with it thousands of times during their marriage. She mentally shook it off. Donald was dead. Dead as a doornail. Deader than four o’clock. He was taking that last train to glory even as they spoke. 

“Let’s do this,” she said, feeling stronger than she had in years.

 

\-------------------------------------------

 

The place stank, which was the most exquisite irony ever. Donald had a _very_ sensitive stomach. It was karma that his most prized instruments of torture were going to molder away forever among the detritus of the unwashed masses. She breathed the foul air deep into her lungs; she smelled the sweet scent of freedom, not rot. 

She looked out over the heaps of trash. A broken neon sign from a popular fast food chain caught her eye. _Perfection._ Donald despised fast food and the ‘white trash’ that regularly ate it. The fact that it also reminded her of the gargantuan neon signs all over this city that bore his name—like he was some Olympian god to be worshipped—made her choice even more fitting. Right beside that neon sign: the perfect resting place for the past. 

“Maybe we’ll stop at a McDonalds on the way home,” she suggested, smiling. 

Behind her, Donnie laughed softly. It was a well-worn joke between them, only this time they’d really follow through. 

“I think we should throw everything over there beside that neon sign,” she said. “What do you think?” 

Donnie laughed again. “I think vaginas are for fucking, not thinking, you stupid cunt.” 

Her blood froze. Stunned, she whipped around. Donnie was smiling, but suddenly she felt naked, exposed under his piercing gaze. This person leering at her was _not_ her son. 

“Satan isn’t such a tool after all.” He chuckled smugly. “We made a deal. Turns out that religious shit of yours is true. Demon possession is actually a thing! Who would have thought?” 

She backed away, searching for an escape, wondering if she was going to rot away beneath that neon sign, too. 

He shook his head and laughed. “Jesus Christ, I’m not going to throw you in the dump. That’s so redneck, and you know how much I loathe white trash. We’re going _home,_ honey.” 

She shook her head, her voice deserting her. 

“I saw the way you were always looking at Donnie. You’ve had the hots for your own son since he hit puberty.” 

“No,” she whispered. 

“I want to see you in that nightgown again, baby. Come on, now…” 

He reached out his hand. 

 


End file.
